


of mirrors and their reflections

by ofserien



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Author is bad at tagging, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, anyway, but guess that didn't happen, erik is a dramatic hoe, every trope ever is in here, no beta we die like men, this was literally supposed to be short, we stan meg giry in this household, which is funny because it's not like i have just loads of free time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24674914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofserien/pseuds/ofserien
Summary: Set right after the Phantom returns Christine to the opera house, above ground. Meg is frightened and angry at whoever this man - thing, whatever -  is, and is even more fearful when she learns the part her mother plays in this scheme. After a heartfelt conversation with Christine, she disappears into the night, only leaving behind a letter. Begrudgingly, the Phantom and Meg decide to embark on a journey to find her. But not all is as it seems, and feelings may form along the way.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera & Meg Giry, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 18
Kudos: 37





	of mirrors and their reflections

“Oh, Maman, where is she?” A petite blonde worried, pacing back and forth in the dressing room. “You promised he’d bring her back . . . where is she?” 

“He swore to bring her back by morning,” Madame Giry stated, though her face wrinkled with concern. 

“Let me go down there, Maman!” She begged, going to her mother. “I’ll find Raoul - he’ll accompany me down there! We’ll bring her back . . . “

“No,” her mother says, snapping her cane on the ground. “You will not bring the Vicomte into this. Am I clear, Meg?” 

“Oh, Maman, please tell me what’s going on!” Meg begs, and in the next second, they both turn to see the mirror open, and a tall man dressed in black comes through. Christine was behind him, tired and frightened, and Meg immediately rushes forward, her arms coming around her dear friend. 

“Good morning, Madame Giry,” he says stiffly, his voice narrow and low. Meg pulls away from Christine to glance at him once more, her eyes taking in the large image of him. Christine’s hand tightened around hers and Meg’s eyes widened, both in fear and curiosity. His hair was slicked back, shiny and off-setting, almost as if it were fake. He was clothed in shadows, a harsh contrast to the paleness of his skin. Her eyes find his, one a pale blue, the other darker than night. 

“What is she doing here?” He grits out, turning back to Madame Giry. “We agreed she would play no part in this.” 

Before her mother could respond, Meg jumps in, “If my role was to play no part, then that was before you kidnapped my friend, Monsieur. And I am sure my mother has a perfectly good explanation as to why Christine’s teacher is a strange man living in the wall of the opera house, and why she allowed this to go on for so long.” 

He takes a step forward toward her, anger written across his expression, but the firm hand of Madame Giry stops him, and she pins him with a harsh look. “You will not touch my daughter, Erik.” 

His lips turn up into a sneer, and he steps back toward the mirror. Without looking back at her, he addresses Meg. “Such blatant disrespect, and so little thanks? Your role as lead ballerina was secured by me, Mademoiselle Giry. Much more from you, and I may remove that title.” 

“Get out,” Meg hisses through clenched teeth, taking a step towards him. Christine’s fingers wrap around her wrist, holding her back, and Meg watches with narrowed eyes as he climbs back through the mirror, the tall mechanism closing swiftly shut behind him. 

“Are you alright, dear?” Madame Giry asks, and they both stare at Christine, worry etched on their faces. 

“Yes,” she replies, though in a matter of moments, tears stream down her cheeks. 

“Oh, Christine,” Meg says, and wraps her arms around her friend. Her mother comes behind Christine and offers a hand to her shoulder, and Christine immediately removes herself from Meg’s grasp and buries herself in her mother’s arms. 

Ugly emotions reared themselves in Meg’s mind, and guilt spiraled within her as she tried to keep them at bay. Her friend was exhausted, frightened, and probably feeling betrayed and heartbroken. She tried not to think about her finding comfort in the ballet mistress, and not her. Madame Giry was like a mother to all the ballet girls, and was certainly a mother to Christine. 

“Let’s get you to bed, dear,” she murmurs to the brunette, and she nods, curls bobbing against her shoulders and back. “Meg, can you alert the new managers that she had returned? Do you not answer any questions - simply say she is exhausted and will remain in solitude for the remainder of the day.” 

Meg nods, glancing toward her friend once more before hurrying out of the room. She carefully makes her way toward the foyer, still dressed in her rehearsal attire, and spots the managers on the other side of the ballroom. 

“O.G.?” Monsieur Moncharmin reads, eyebrow arching in question. “I suppose it is to mean ‘Opera Ghost’.” 

“You can’t be serious!” Monsieur Richard says, laughter booming around the expansive room. “It’s someone playing a cruel trick! And rather clever, too. We shall find the culprit, I daresay!” 

“Monsieurs,” Meg says, approaching the two. “I have a message from Madame Giry.” 

“Where is she!” A voice says, quickly running toward the trio. “I received a note that the ‘Angel of Music’ has Christine ‘under his wing’. I demand to know who wrote this!” 

“Well how are we supposed to know? We were sent strange letters as well!” Monsieur Richard announces, raising his own letter in the air. 

“Monsieurs - “ Meg tries again, but is interrupted by a high shrill, erupting from the tall woman that enters. Her fingertips dig into the soft skin of her palms, surely leaving small, red crescents behind. Did no one believe she had any importance in her message? Did her words carry any weight? 

“Where is she? That stupid girl! I hope the Phantom came and swept her off. If I had known I would be replaced with such lunacy and shrouded with disrespect, I would have came back!” 

“You’re simply awful!” Meg says, shocked by the singer’s words, and she barely can utter another syllable before the fiery red-head has a finger wagging in her face. She darts away, though, at the mention of her letter. 

“What’s that you have in your hand?” One of the managers asks, and she hands it off to the nearest man. Raoul snatches it from her with a pointed look, and she recoils, a sneer permanently set on her mouth. His eyes quickly skim over the note, and his eyes rise to meet hers. 

“This is written by the same person who addressed us,” he murmurs. 

“Monsieurs - please. I have a message from Madame Giry on Christine’s condition,” she repeats. 

“Well, spit it out, girl! What is it!” Monsieur Firmin demands, and Meg has to bite her tongue to keep a retort bottled away. 

“Christine Daae has returned,” she begins. And the group immediately pounces. 

“I trust her midnight oil is well and truly burned, then!” Monsieur Richard says drily, massaging his temples. 

“Where precisely is she now?” Firmin questions. Raoul gazes at her intently, blue eyes searching hers, as if he could read her mind. She worried now. Could he? Would he go looking for the Phantom? Or - what was it her mother called him? Erik? 

“My mother thought it best she be alone at home. She needed rest,” she supplies, and Raoul inches forward. 

“May I see her?” He asks, and Meg’s heart softened with his worry. 

“No Monsieur, she will remain alone and see no one,” Meg replies. 

“Will she sing?” Carlotta says, drawing ever closer. The blonde crosses her arms, but before she can say anything, Raoul whisks Meg off to the side as the managers begin to pepper Carlotta with questions and pleas. 

“You know something, Mademoiselle, don’t you?” He asks, and Meg shivers under his gaze. 

“I know no more than anyone else, Monsieur. Please don’t ask again,” she lies, and begins to turn around to head back to her mother and Christine. 

“Meg, please. That is your name, isn’t it? Meg Giry?” His hand catches the crook of her elbow, and the blonde turns around at the sound of his pleas, her eyes downcast. “Your Christine’s friend.” 

“I am, and that is my name,” she admits. “Please, Raoul, ask no more of me. I will send word to you when she is ready to see people.” 

He pulls away from her then, and she lifts her gaze to see him silently agree. “Alright, Meg. I believe you.” 

She nods her head, and then hurries away from them, her mother’s betrayal beginning to sting behind her eyes. Not only was she lying, but she was an accomplice to hiding him. What on earth was her mother doing? Tears gathered in her eyes as she thought of his final words - was her part no more than his influence? And why? Would she have the role she currently held if it were based on her own talent? 

Her hands fisted by her sides, and as she stood outside of the dressing room her mother and Christine were in, she turned around and marched toward the stairs, sprinting across the opera house to the other side. She knew where the chapel was, but had never visited. She attended church with her mother and Christine every Sunday, but never saw the need to seek out spiritual wisdom beyond what her mother would offer when she needed advice. Many a time, however, Meg would simply sit in a bench, and feel considerably better after a time. 

The room was darkly lit and shrouded in darkness, save for a few candles that were lit periodically about the room. She didn’t understand why Christine spent such long hours in here - what did she hope to find? Answers? Comfort? 

Meg slid into one of the few benches in the room, and stared up at the crucifix, suspended at the front of the room from the ceiling. Before much more time had passed, however, she felt the air significantly lower, and her eyes widened when the candlelight dimmed, before their flames eventually extinguished. She could barely make out the smoky wisps dancing about each other, like lovers locked in a seductive waltz. 

“Christine,” a voice whispered, and Meg jumped up, arms wrapping about herself, and tripped over the bench behind, falling to her knees. She winced before standing, and swore she saw the tall figure of a man - much like the one she’d seen earlier - near the crucifix. 

“Whose is that voice?” She asks quickly, frantically backing away. “Who is that over there?” 

The shadow’s eyes seemed to glow before widening, and in a flurry of darkness, disappears, as if he were a ghost. Meg’s breath catches as the candlelight returns to its eerie gloom, and the crucifix once more is smoothed and soft with gentle orange and yellow hues. She quickly hurried out, and nearly ran into a few of the other girls, who greeted her casually, and Meg attempted to wipe fear from her face. 

The oldest girl, Sorelli, whom Meg was closest with, looped an arm around hers and continued gossiping with Lucy, a dark-haired girl with olive skin, and a new girl named Jammes, whom Meg didn’t know very well. 

“Do you think it’s true, Meg? That the Phantom of the Opera took Christine?” She asks excitedly, and Lucy immediately turns to look at Meg, hurrying to the fountain under the grand staircase, where many of the girls would usually talk. 

“Of course not!” She replies, trying to shake the heavy emotions she’d experienced in the past hour. “But perhaps someone else did.” 

Sorelli giggled. “Everyone says you saw him when he came through with Christine! That he walked through a mirror, and you yelled at him for taking Christine. Is it true?” 

Meg stops, and nearly freezes with panic. Had someone been watching? If she were to be caught in a tangle of lies surrounding any of this, would she be in trouble? She forces a laugh, and then says, “No, but if I do see him, I’ve certainly a few words for him!” 

“I wonder if he’s handsome,” Jammes says, glancing up at the feminine statue placed near the middle of the fountain. “Is it true he wears a mask?” 

“Ask Meg,” Lucy says, grinning as she turns toward her blonde friend. “You know all about him! Meg saw him three years ago. Tell her!” 

She clasped her hands in front of her to keep them from shaking. Was who she saw last night the Phantom? It surely wouldn’t be too much of a jump for Christine’s Angel to be him. Her heart clenched with hurt for her friend. How miserable she must have felt once she’d found out the truth, that he was no spectral figure her father had sent. 

“I had just turned fifteen, and had spent the day with Christine, and we’d forgotten about rehearsal,” she begins, and was glad to find the strength to keep her voice from wavering. She allowed a tell-tale smirk to curve her lips, knowing she would surely cause Jammes a fright. Meg had told scary stories of ghosts and phantoms - especially their own Phantom - to many of the girls, especially the younger ones, and loved watching the emotions on their faces. How her stories could instill fear, or leave them near tears, or comfort them, or have them simply ready to pop from joy. But the story of the Phantom of the Opera was a particular favorite of hers - of course, maybe before she realized Christine’s teacher and him may be one and the same. “Maman was furious, but allowed us to use the stage for practice. She made us promise we’d be quiet, but how difficult it was! We’d just shared and exciting day, and now had the stage to ourselves! We pretended we were prima donnas and stood near the center, and there, Christine began to sing. She cut off abruptly at the end when we heard a clamor near the box seats, and then we nearly died of fright when applause arose.” 

“Was it the Phantom?” Jammes asked, and Meg grinned. 

“Who else would it be? He stood tall in box five - that’s his box, by the way. That’s why no one purchases it - and we could barely make his form out. He was dressed all in black, but his eyes were bright and feline and glowed in the darkness. He wore a half-mask, porcelain and gleaming white, and I think he had a black fedora. He seemed to wear a cape, but it was difficult to make out.” 

“But was he handsome?” Jammes asks, a dreamy look in her eye, and Lucy snorted with laughter. 

“On and on she’s gone all day about all the men we’ve seen, but never has she gone quiet about all we’ve heard on the Phantom.” She nudges the thin brunette. “Have you got a crush, Jammes?”

She blushes, but then rolls her eyes. “If it’s true that he’s Christine’s mysterious teacher - oh, don’t look at me like that! We’ve all heard the rumors, Meg - he’s also been the one bullying the managers into giving her lead roles! He’s also paid a large sum every month. And he’s a figure of such mystery - you surely can’t say that aspects of him are largely attractive!” 

“If he ever goes looking for a wife, I’m sure there will be no one standing in the way,” Meg jokes, and Jammes blushes. 

“Well, keep going!” Lucy encourages her, but Meg shrugs. 

“Nothing much happened after. He clapped for her, and said, “Brava, Brava”. His voice was rich and low, and if we hadn’t spotted him in the upper box, then we surely wouldn’t have been able to find where his voice came from. It sounded as if it were directly behind us, but when we turned to look, saw nothing, and glanced back, he was gone.” 

“How did you ever sleep again?” Jammes asks, staring wide-eyed at the blonde. “It simply - “

“Girls, I expect you have eaten well before your break. Have you all finished gossiping about ghosts?” A strict voice said behind them, and they turned, only to see the glaring eyes of the ballet mistress, Madame Giry. 

They all immediately stood and bowed their heads, and angled off to walk toward the dormitory, but her mother stopped Meg before she could go any further. 

“You must never speak of him, Meg, ever,” she warned, and Meg shook her head. 

“Maman, I swear - it was just of what happened three years ago! You told me it was nothing short of a dream anyway.” She pauses, and then her face and chest turn red with unfiltered emotion. “He seems dangerous, Maman. How could you allow this to happen? And to go on for so long? He found her after that, didn’t he? Pretended to be her Angel? And taught her?” 

Her mother backed away, and her eyes softened. “I know it may seem strange, Meg, but he helped her in ways we may never be able to comprehend. You do remember her when she first came? She could barely sing, barely speak without dissolving into tears. Music was a source of longing and pain, and though I was loathe to allow him near her, he brought her joy and belonging and comfort. He would never hurt her, Meg, and I truly believe that.”

“He . . . he said that you had agreed I would not be part of this,” she murmurs, and the older woman nods. 

“He was more amused than angry when he found out it was you spreading stories around about him, but wanted nothing to do with anyone, except for Christine.” She sighed. “Meg, he holds great power and influence - if I refused, he would take her on as a student anyway, and perhaps more, as I’m sure we know now. I promised to keep you in the dark, if he offered his protection to you both.” 

“And his influence?” She asks, cradling her hands by her stomach. “Am I truly only the lead ballerina because of him?”

In a rare moment of affection, her mother leans down and gently hugs Meg to her. “You are where you are because of your talent and hard work, Marguerite Giry. Regardless of his influence, you are exactly where you deserve to be.” 

Tears flooded Meg’s eyes from her kind words. Long had she waited to hear something of that nature from her. “Thank you, Maman.” 

She pulls away then, and pulls herself up to her full height, the cane back and clasped by her palms. “Very well then, dear. I’m sure you have many more questions, but now is not that time. I shall see you in rehearsal.” And with that, Meg hurried away to return to her friends. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Once Christine returned back to rehearsals, many of the girls surrounded her, peppering her with questions, and though she was shy, Meg could see how the attention made her previously weary self glow. Jealousy once again rose in her, but she pushed it back down, angry at herself for even feeling such a thing. She noticed the discomfort when they all asked her if it was the Phantom who had taken her, and she had denied it, saying she’d prefer not to say, and Meg immediately swooped in, waving the other girls off. 

“He truly isn’t as horrible as everyone seems to think, Meg. He was incredibly gentle - I truly slept most of the time I stayed with him,” Christine explained after they hurried toward the fountain. It was empty, as they’d expected, as many of the other girls had been swept off by their lovers and others usually went out into the dark Parisian evening during the weekends, where their nights were free. There was no evening rehearsals in the evenings after an opera or a ballet was performed for the next few weeks. 

“Did he hurt you, Christine? You seemed terrified when you came back,” Meg questions, holding Christine’s hands softly in her own. 

“Of course not. He frightened me, though. Oh, Meg, I took his mask off him! His face . . . is horrible, horribly disfigured.”

Meg gasps, leaning closer. “So that’s why he wears a mask? All of the stories talk of how ugly he is, but I always assumed it was to hide his identity.” 

“I suppose not,” Christine says, shrugging. “He scared me and called me names when I did so, and I deserved them all. How much he has given me, and I take away the only barrier of trust!”

Meg cocks an eyebrow in confusion. “He kidnapped you, Christine. I hardly think unmasking him warrants these dramatics.”

Christine shakes her head, pulling her hands away from Meg and glancing down. “You don’t understand . . . the way he looked at me after . . . it was as if he barely knew me. Yes, I was frightened of him, but none so much as how frightened I am now. Oh, Meg, what if he never returns to me! He was my dear friend for such a time, and now . . . “

A sudden thought occurred to Meg, and she could barely help the fear that rose in her. “Do . . . do you love him, Christine?” 

The brunette doesn’t reply, and Meg takes her into her arms, cradling her friend gently. 

“I’m very confused, Meg,” she admits, and Meg holds her tightly. 

“It will be alright, Christine,” she promises. 

They stay there a little longer before they head back, and Christine asks Meg to stay with her in the dressing room, saying Madame Giry had allowed her to stay to avoid the other girls, and Meg agrees. 

“Are you sure you’re alright staying in here?” Meg asks, and Christine nods, leading her inside. 

“He won’t hurt me, Meg, nor you. I promise,” she says, and Meg nods, following her inside. 

There was already food set on the table, and Meg looked at the mirror in confusion before turning back to Christine, who had already sat at the little table and was enjoying a sandwich. Meg joined her, though was nervous to speak, not able to remove the thought from her head that the Phantom - Erik, whoever he was - was behind the mirror. 

Christine eventually fell asleep on the bed while Meg sipped from a cup of tea, reading a novel by candlelight, and when her eyes began to droop, she made her way over to Christine. 

“Chris,” she whispers, nudging her, but Christine groans, rolling over in bed, remaining unconscious.

Meg sighs, looking over at the couch in the corner, and decides to rest there. It was chilly, and she was loathe to find that the only blanket in the room was covering Christine. She lay on the couch, curling around herself, but couldn’t help but glance at the mirror three or four times before throwing one of their gowns over it. She returns back to the couch, and enters a fitful sleep, the candle still burning bright next to her on the floor. 

She startled awake a few hours later to a roar, and found that a blanket had been placed over her. She glanced around, wondering if Christine had awoken, and placed it over her. Her eyes flickered open, and she gazed wide-eyed as the Phantom stood in their room, a letter bunched in his fist. 

“Meg Giry,” he growls, turning to her, and she backed away from him as he approached her. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the contents of this letter, would you?” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replies, and her fear plummets through her stomach as she glances at the empty bed. “Where’s Christine?” 

“You’re a liar!” He accuses, and backs Meg against the wall, a hard and violent glint in his eye. She tries to push his shoulder to back him away, but he easily catches it and raises her palm above her head, causing the blanket to fall from her shoulders. 

“No I’m not! I swear, I don’t know what’s going on! Did you hurt Christine? Did you take her somewhere?” She shrieks, fighting against his grip, but stops when his hand tightens around her wrist. 

“Of course not, foolish girl! Did you tell that stupid boy Christine was in trouble? Did she cry and scream when she returned, and beg him to take her away? Did you convince him to do so?”

“What?” She says now, her voice soft. Was Christine gone? Had she left?

His grip loosens, and lets her wrists fall slack against her side. “You truly didn’t have any part in this plot?”

“Give me the letter,” she pleas, wincing at the beg in her voice, and he hands her the letter, and Meg quickly side-steps him, moving across the room near the door, in case she’d need to escape. 

My Dearest Meg, 

I’m so sorry that I must leave you tonight. Raoul and I have made our way to somewhere far away. I am afraid to disclose the location, in case someone but you may find this letter first, but I believe this is for the best. I feel frightened and confused, and Raoul’s sisters were so very kind to welcome us. 

I feel terribly guilty for leaving you behind, especially in a room I know you have much discomfort in, now. But please, understand - I wanted one last night with my dearest friend, and couldn’t bare to leave without spending a few hours with you. 

I don’t know when I will be back, if I will ever be back. I know that I may be sacrificing my career, but so much has happened, and I can barely wrap my head around it. I only hope that you can forgive me, and someday, we will be dear friends again. 

Your loving and guilty friend, 

Christine 

Meg felt tears well in her eyes and she turned away from the prying gaze of the Phantom, turning toward the door as she covers her mouth with her hand, silencing her ragged breaths. 

“You truly had no part in this?” He questions again, and Meg turns to him, glaring, tears falling down her cheeks. She huffs, crumpling the letter in her hand before throwing it to the side. 

“Do I seem like I knew about this?” She cries, and the candlelight softened his features, and he seemed so angry, but she also saw desperation, confusion, and vulnerability, which she was sure echoed in her own features. Her eyes then hardened, and she threw a pale green cloak over her shoulders, mint cascading down her back and legs. 

“I’m going after her,” Meg says, slipping her boots and gloves on. “If you follow me, I will alert the gendermernes,” she warns. 

“Mademoiselle, with no due respect, I am going after her, and if you wish to accompany me, you will in no way stand between me and her when we find her,” he shoots back, and Meg turns to him angrily, tears still clouding her vision. 

“If you follow after me, I’m telling my mother of you going after her,” she says, and he laughs drily. 

“As I will if you prove to be a barrier, Meg,” he says, and she shivers when he says her name, and she couldn’t decide whether it was honeyed or poisoned. 

“Fine,” she says, crossing her arms in front of herself. “I will allow you to accompany me, but know this - you may be able to overpower me, but you’re also a wanted criminal.” 

She doesn’t give him time to respond as she takes the lantern from him, wiping her eyes, and quietly exiting the room. She feels him follow closely behind her, and she can feel the waves of betrayal and anger wash off him like waves onto her. 

She leads him quietly through the front of the ballroom, though in the moment she realizes the lock on the doors, he grabs the lantern away from her, and she gasps, and restrains herself from pushing him down the stairs. He leads her to one of the tall mirrors on either side of the room, next to the fountain, and carefully slides it open, revealing a quiet Paris, shrouded with midnight. 

“Right, then. We go to the train station,” Meg says, pointing to her left, but he shakes his head, much to her dismay. 

“Incredibly traceable - we look for a carriage, where she would travel through the countryside. We track her by horse,” he explains. 

“Her only goal is to get away from you. I’m sure she isn’t picky,” Meg retorts, and she hears him inhale sharply, and imagines it took nearly every ounce of his control to hold back an insult. “Fine. We take the horses. What happens when tomorrow comes, then?”

“We keep going,” he says, and Meg looks back at the opera house, where she knows her mother will be furious and worried - especially once Erik disappears, too. But Christine couldn’t just walk away - and what if she was in trouble?

The odd couple makes their way toward the carriages, near the other side of Paris, and Meg begins to regret not changing out of her nightgown, the freezing air biting her skin. If Erik notices her shivering, he did not comment. 

They walked in silence as they approached the carriages, and he gave Meg a pocket of change, ordering her to purchase the use of one horse. She nods, snatching the change from him, and making her way toward the man, who nearly dropped with exhaustion. A single pang of guilt runs through her, knowing it was most likely nearing midnight and he had been on his way home. 

She wraps the cloak tightly around herself. “One horse, Monsieur? Please?” And he groans, taking the pocket of change from her, and pointed toward the stables. 

“The first one on the right, Cesar - you may have him,” he says, and then walks back into the building, closing the door shut behind him. The lights soon flicker out. 

Erik is already past her, and Meg watches with near awe as he gently strokes his muzzle before cautiously throwing a saddle over his expansive back. 

“Front, or back?” He asks her, and Meg glances at him, wide-eyed. 

“What?” 

“Surely I do not need to repeat himself,” he says, stepping into the foot-holder and throwing a leg over. 

Did she have to? “Back, I suppose.” 

She attempts to climb onto the horse, but having never done so before, she nearly falls, and a deprecating laugh falls from Erik’s lips. She detracts herself wildly at the touch of his hand, but eventually curls her fingers around his own and he swings her behind him onto the horse. She wraps her arms tightly around him, fighting the urge to gag, and then they were off. 

She found that if she pretend he were anyone else, it was easier to bare. Maybe he was a handsome stable-boy who took her on romantic rides at midnight, or a wealthy, young suitor who had seen her dance and couldn’t take his eyes off her. But most of all, it was easy to get swept into the magic and darkness of the city as they quickly strode out of the city. Meg found that his height hid her face from the biting wind, and his warmth seeped into her. He was certainly no ghost at all - he was a living, breathing man, who was warm and felt anger and desperation. She nearly pitied him for the sheer heartbreak he felt. 

She hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep until the early dawn awoke her, and her head lay against his shoulder. He was stiff in her arms, though she felt lean muscle beneath her hands. They came to a complete stop now, and Meg assumed it was to allow the horse to rest. He clambered down, and she avoided his hand, awkwardly lowering herself to the ground with a stumble. 

They lay under a tree, both on different sides, and Meg sat near Cesar, running her fingers through his mane as he rested. She saw Erik tip his head in slumber a few times, but lasting no more than a few minutes. Did he not require large amounts of sleep? She thought. 

“I suppose you’ve figured out I’m the Phantom, then,” he says, and Meg jumps at his voice, his eyes turning towards hers. 

“Y-yes, yes, I have,” she admits, glancing up at him. “I suppose I believe in angels, but not ghosts, Monsieur.”

“And I suppose Christine has told you a multitude of terrible things about me, yes? That my face is horribly deformed, that I frightened her so, that I am a man of brokenness and destruction? Everything that I touch is dead?” He says drily, and Meg’s forehead wrinkles with a dull shock. 

“No, no not at all - well, yes, she said you scared her, and that your face was, well, hideous.” Erik turns his face away, and Meg feels that strand of pity bubble inside of her. “But she also talked of how great of a musician you were. How you were gentle and kind. My mother . . .”

“And what does she have to say about me?” He asks, his voice soft. 

“Never mind about her,” she says, looking down at her hands and leaning against Cesar. 

They sit in silence, and Meg pretends to ignore when Erik wipes his hand across the bare side of his face, his fingers coming back, slick with moisture. 

“Come, we must continue. I can’t imagine they stopped for long, either,” he says, and she nods, this time taking his hand when he helps her behind him. Her arms came around him again, and she wasn’t surprised this time when he stiffened. She felt hunger begin to claw in her stomach and thirst ravage her already dry throat, but it mattered not. What bothered her the most was her pity for the man sitting in front of her. Was this what Christine felt? Her mother felt? 

She imagined the stable-boy again, spinning the fantasy in her head, and watched as the sun rose, the fields now an autumnal hue and dancing in the slight breeze. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

They rode in silence until noon, when Meg surely thought she was going to be sick and faint if she didn’t eat. They stopped near a small town, and Erik helped her off, her feet gently hitting the ground this time. 

“A few minutes, or I leave without you,” he warns. She rolls her eyes at him before hurrying to the small town, the bundle of coins in her hand. She smelled the delicious scent of freshly cooked bread, and made her way inside. 

There was a kindly looking man behind the counter and a round-faced woman, both elderly, and they grinned at her as she entered. 

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” they greet, and she smiles back, returning the sentiment. She asks for a few croissants and a small bag of apples, thinking this would last them the next few days, if need be. 

“Of course,” the woman says, and hands Meg the food in exchange for the coins. Before she turns around and leaves, the woman stops her. “Is that your husband out there?” 

Meg turns to see that where Erik had stopped was visible, and he had dismounted, standing next to Cesar, gently rubbing a hand over his mane. The bare side of his face faced them, and she turned back around, nodding. “Yes,” she lies, guilt churning her already empty stomach. “We’ve just married.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” She swoons, and Meg smiles shyly, a blush spreading from her chest to her cheeks. “You can stay here with us until you’re rested, please don’t say you’ve spent all night riding!”

“Oh, of course not,” she lies again, waving the offer off. “But thank you, very much. I’ll tell my husband of your kindness.”

“Where are you off to?” She questions, holding Meg’s gaze. “We have family not too far off - perhaps a day’s journey from here. If you tell them we sent you, they’ll allow you to stay for the night.”

“How thoughtful!” Meg says, grinning. “Thank you very much.”

She leaves then, quickly making her way back to Erik, and he lifts her behind him. “You spoke for a while. Surely you didn’t tell them of your accompaniment with the famed Opera Ghost?”

Meg shook her head. “No. They offered us a place to stay, just a day’s journey from here.” 

“Not necessary. We should find Christine much before then,” he promises, and Meg glances down at the ground, worry filling her. What if they didn’t find her by nightfall?

Meg grew tireless and bored, and though she greatly feared the man in front of her, she couldn’t help but pepper him with questions. He answered the first few patiently, but soon snapped at her, and she grew quiet. 

“You can’t simply tell me you were a pirate and then leave me in suspense!” She argues, and he groans. 

“I am, and I shall,” he retorts. “And says you? Who tells all the children of the horrors of The Phantom of the Opera. Always leaving them wanting more.”

“I told them all I knew,” she said, frowning. “But you certainly have had quite the life - if I am to be stuck with you, then perhaps we can try to get along. Until we get back, of course. Then it will take a large amount of convincing to not send the gendermernes for you.” 

“Another time, if you would allow me a moment of peace. I can barely hear my own thoughts,” he growls. “And perhaps you should stick to dancing instead of your gothic tales.” 

“Grumpy and rude. Do you have much of a personality beyond that?” She grumbles, staring bullets at his back. 

She expects him to react angrily, but instead, he laughs. Was he amused?

“Are . . . are you mocking me, Monsieur?” She questions carefully, her arms tightening around him. 

“You have quite the spirit, Meg Giry. Never have I met someone as feisty as you.” 

She takes it as a backhanded compliment, and leaves the conversation with, “I’ve never known someone quite like you either, Monsieur.” 

It was once again silent for the rest of the day, though more comfortably. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

She could feel his weariness before he even spoke. “I hope you know where this family lives. It seems we will be staying the night.” 

“I knew it,” she mumbles, sliding off the horse clumsily without his help, and wrapping the cloak once more tightly about her. She felt her stomach grumble again and, frankly, she wished to bathe, so she quickly hurried inside, feeling Erik’s eyes follow her within. 

“Bonjour,” she greets, hoping it was the right house. “I believe you have family a way’s from here, they run a bakery? I believe they are Fournier’s?” 

“Yes! My parents,” a woman says, coming out of a back room. She seemed to be young, perhaps only a few years older than Meg herself. “Do they need anything?”

“They offered to let my husband and I stay for the night,” she says, gesturing back to Erik, who was in a similar stance as before, next to Cesar. “If not, however, I wouldn’t wish to intrude. Especially if you are not comfortable.”

“Not at all!” She says, grinning at Meg widely. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen anyone else!” The blonde thought that was rather strange, but waved it off. “Go and gather your husband. The stable-boys will secure your horse. We have a room upstairs you can stay in.” 

Meg nods appreciatively, though decides it be important to mention Erik once more. “My husband . . . he wears a mask. He fought in the war, and suffered serious cosmetic damage. He’s very self-conscious about it . . . “

The woman giggles, nodding. “Of course, dear! I’ll ready the room for you. I’ll meet you down here when it’s ready!” And with that, she turned and hurried up the stairs, disappearing somewhere beyond the visible hallways. 

The house was large, spanning multiple floors. She wondered why this woman seemed to live alone, in such a home, when here parents lived in a small bakery many hours away. It seemed strange, but it wasn’t her place to question it, she knew. Something felt odd about this place, but Meg convinced herself it was just due to exhaustion. 

“Have they a room, then?” He asks, and Meg nods, though she bites her lip nervously. 

“I told them we’re married,” she said, and he turns to her, quickly now, and Meg wasn’t sure whether she saw more anger or confusion on his face. 

“Why?” He asks, genuinely serious, and Meg meets his gaze with an equal amount of fervor. 

“The couple asked, back at the bakery, and I said yes. If I wouldn’t have, they might not have offered a room,” she shrugs. 

“You couldn’t simply have said I was your brother? Or father? They would have offered the same,” he argued, but she shook her head. 

“I have no clue how old you are, but you seem too young to be my father. And we look nothing alike,” she argues, and he huffs, grabbing their bag of food. 

“I suppose that means we’ll be in the same room,” he says, and Meg’s mind spirals, and she blushes, though it was beginning to darken, so she hopes he missed it. 

Apparently not. “What, did you not realize that?” 

She doesn’t respond, and he laughs mercilessly at her, patting Cesar on the back. 

“Don’t laugh at me, Monsieur,” she scowls, turning and walking toward the grand house again. She feels him walk in step behind her after a few moments, and they approach the home. 

“Just call me Erik,” he says after a few moments. “On the rare occasion have I ever wanted been called something formal.” 

She doesn’t turn back to him, but he seems to catch her surprise at such a normal name. She’d heard her mother call him that before, in the dressing room, but never did she quite expect to hear it again, especially from his lips. It was much easier to think of him as a monster than a man. 

“What are you thinking?” He asks, crossing his arms as they await inside. 

“Nothing,” she replies, turning away from him again, and he scoffs at her. 

“You think rather loudly, Meg Giry, so I highly doubt you are truly thinking of nothing,” he replies, and she turns to him in mock confusion. 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” she snaps, turning to him. “And if my thoughts are to remain private, than that is my choice, not yours.” 

“May I take a guess?” He asks, and Meg arches a brow at him. 

“I hardly think it matters whether you have my permission or not,” she retorts, and he grins. 

“Is it such a shock that I am a normal man, with normal needs, who wants and yearns for things, the same as you? The same as anyone else?” He asks, and Meg turns away, but he catches her elbow, spinning her to face him. 

“Don’t touch me,” she says, and he immediately retracts his hand, but keeps her pinned with his gaze. 

“I’ve done many bad things, Meg Giry, but yet we still exist in the same realm, the same race. I have the same thoughts as you, the same feelings. Is that truly so revolting for you?” 

“Why do you care?” She replies. “I’m nothing to you. To no one, just as you are to me. And no matter how truthful your words may be, I understand perfectly clear that you are human, and you are no supernatural figure.”

“Bonjour, M. . . . “ the woman begins, coming back, and Meg rips away from him, but he settles an arm around her back, much to her dismay and discomfort. 

“Mercier. Thank you for accommodating us,” he says, his voice silken and smooth, and it filled Meg with such a delicious feeling that she nearly wanted to sink. 

“Follow me,” she says, handing Meg the key, though Erik takes it from her grasp once the woman turns around, and she elbows him in the ribs. He chokes on the sudden pain, but impressively remains quiet. They are led up the stairs and to the right, where Meg had watched her earlier, and stopped on a door a few feet down. 

“Thank you,” Meg says, waiting for Erik to open the door. He does so, rather quickly, and they both tumble inside, and Meg bids the woman goodbye. They immediately disperse to different sides of the room, and the blonde’s heart pounds when she sees there is only one bed. 

“I’ll take the floor. I’m more accustomed to uncomfortable sleeping spaces than you are, I would imagine,” he says, pulling a pillow from the bed. 

“As are you with dramatics,” she says. 

They awkwardly shuffle around each in the bathroom, deciding that Meg will bathe first. After filling the tub, she realizes that she has no clean clothes. She rubs herself down with a wash towel until her skin turns pink, and then scrubs the dirt and smell off of her nightgown. She was nervous to clean the cloak, and after a quick sniff, decided it could wait. 

She waited as long as she could, until the very last second, until Erik knocks on the bathroom door, alerting her that any water left for him is most likely freezing at this point. She wraps herself in the cloak, and opens the door, blushing deeply and hurrying past him, wet clothes in clutch. 

He doesn’t say anything, thankfully, and she opens the window, cool air swirling around the small room. Meg surmised it reminded her of a flat, but wasn’t sure, as she had never stayed anywhere much outside of the ballet dormitories. Every summer, her mother and Meg traveled to her grandparents in Italy for a few weeks, but even then, she shared a room with her mother. This room was much smaller than that, but still comfortable and extravagant. 

She carefully placed her clothing over the window, allowing them to air-dry. She looked around for their purchased bag of food, and Meg removed an apple and a croissant, laying them out before her on a table in the corner. She wrapped her bare self tightly in the warm cloak, and gazed out into the dark night sky. 

She startled when the bathroom door opened, revealing Erik, who was wearing considerably less clothes than before. He wore a poet’s shirt and trousers, though his feet were bare. The shirt showed a considerable amount of his chest, and she looked away toward the apple core. Oh, what her mother would think of her now! She’d barely even met many men, and now she was sharing a room with one! 

“I believe your nightgown is dry now, Meg,” he drawls, and the ballerina stands, keeping the cloak tight around her, and quickly grabs the clothes from the window. To her relief, they were, and she changed inside the bathroom before emerging once more. 

The window was closed again, and Erik lay on the floor, leaving the thick blanket for her. After a quick glance, she saw it was the only source of warmth, and set her cloak to the side. She was tempted to use the cloak and give him the blanket, but the clasps were uncomfortable to lay on. 

The candle was still burning on the night table, and as she lay down, she blew it out, a smoky and distinctive scent swirling through the surrounding air and invading her senses. 

She closed her eyes, and if she weren’t so tired, she was sure she wouldn’t have fallen asleep so quickly. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Meg awoke to a strange scraping outside their door, and fear awakened her mind quickly. 

Erik had already awoken before her, and she saw him carefully step toward his coat removing something circular and red. The moonlight outlined his shape, and for a moment, he appeared ghostly and unreal. 

Meg crept up, standing and going to his side as whispers spread and increased on the other side of the door, and she nearly reached out and grasped him when all light disappeared, save for the moon. 

The doorknob began to spin, and clicks and knocks began to echo all around them. Meg shrieked when the door opened, and Erik held an arm in front of her, shielding the dancer as a bullet ricocheted past them, burying itself in the wall. 

“Run,” he whispers to her, and she nearly laughs. 

“Where?” She gasps, and he pushes her toward the window. 

“You can’t be serious,” she says, though she gathers her cloak and the bag of food. 

“You can also stay behind and die,” he offers, and her breathing intensifies as the shadows on the other side of the door now move closer to them. As they approached, their outlines turned into those of people. 

“Two more playthings, to add to our collection,” a woman sings, pointing a knife in their direction. Meg recognizes her voice from earlier, and gasps. 

“A pretty little thing, a dancer, perhaps? She’ll be first,” a man warns, drawing nearer, and Erik backs up with Meg, his arm still outstretched. At the slash of a knife aimed toward Erik, Meg throws the lantern at the man, effectively knocking him out, but earning a sharp cut on her arm. 

“Just do it,” he hisses out, and Meg slings the bag over her elbow and crawls out the window, nearly slipping. At her gasp, Erik turns around, and she shrieks when the group of three pounce on him. All was quiet a few moments later as she climbed down, and she shivered, wondering how he quieted them. 

She was perched on a window that juts out above the second floor, too scared to move. She figured she’d die either way, and prayed that Erik would find her soon, if he was even still alive.

After a few breathless moments, she heard him call her name from the ground. She glances down, though her vision goes sideways at the amount of distance between the two. 

“It’s alright, Meg, just climb down. I won’t let you fall,” he says, and Meg carefully steps a foot out, though she slips an inch or two, and hands grip more tighter. Tears wet her cheeks as she fears this may be her last few moments on earth. 

“I’m scared,” she chokes, attempting to pull herself back up, but she was too low from the balcony seat in order to do so. Her only chance was to continue her trek down. 

“Don’t be,” he reassures, and Meg squeezes her eyes shut, trying to focus on the softness of his tone. She didn’t want to think about it, think about him, of what just happened, of anything. She told herself she was brave. She took another careful step down, sliding on the brick, and she felt the scrape against her fingers. Another step, another slide, another scrape, and then she felt hands around her waist, and she could have sobbed from the relief she felt when her feet touched the ground. 

“You’re hurt,” she says, eyeing a cut on his cheek and his jaw. He cocks an eyebrow at her, glancing down at her arms and hands. 

“You’re bleeding a significant more amount than I am, and you’re worried about me?” He questions, more amazed than anything. 

“Can we just go?” She asks, and he nods, glancing around before leading Meg toward the stables. 

Cesar was alright, much to Meg’s relief, though she didn’t want to wait much longer, in case there were others. Who were these people, anyway? When she asked Erik as he helped her behind him, she felt his shrug against her forehead. 

“I haven’t a clue. Though, it seems this sort of thing likes to follow me around.” 

She didn’t reply, though she adjusted her hands, the small trickle of blood from the pads of her fingers staining the white of his shirt. He didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he didn’t care. 

After a while of silence, Meg had nearly fallen asleep. His words brought her out of her sleepy trance. “ Why would you do that?” He asks, and Meg blinks tiredly against his back. 

“What?” She asks, and he repeats the same thing. 

“How easy it would have been for you to leave me behind, to be rid of me forever,” he says. “Why not take that chance?” 

“We have to find Christine,” she says, yawning. “And though you’re incredibly rude, you aren’t as awful of a person as I thought you were.” 

He doesn’t respond to that, but she can feel his breathing pattern increase rapidly and raggedly under her arms. She ignores this, however, and falls asleep against him, weary and tired. She suspected he was too. 

They stopped again in the early morning, still exhausted, and Erik tied Cesar to a tree. Meg curled up near the base, resting her head against her arms, and napped a little while longer. Erik leaned against the tree next to her, and though he only slept for an hour or so, his mind ran a million miles and more. 

Meg hadn’t even seen his face, yet she shown the most kindness he suspected anyone had. His heart broke when he considered that if she were to be victim to his deformity, any fragile friendship they had would break quickly. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He awoke her later, almost in the afternoon, as the sun slowly slid across the sky. Meg grinned at the brilliant shine, and they walked side-by-side, Erik indulging her in conversation, though nothing of much significance. They talked of operas and ballets, and Erik was rather shocked at her favorites. 

“Don Giovanni? Truly?”

“Well why not? I think it’s as valuable as it is beautiful. It’s a wonderful production, and I’d wish we’d put it on,” she shrugs. “I love Faust - one of my favorites, don’t get me wrong - but it’s such an overdone opera. I wish we’d do more Mozart - The Marriage is Figaro is lovely, too.” 

“But aren’t you merely a chorus member for operas?” He questions. “Why be so passionate of something you are not directly involved in?”

“Though I may not be an opera singer, I do enjoy singing, Erik,” she informs him. “I don’t quite think I’ll ever be as good as Christine, but I’d certainly like to improve. I’ve never had a teacher.”

He is silent for a moment. “If you would allow - and your mother - perhaps I can take on a second student. I am very strict, and will not accept excuses or tardiness. I understand that you are also a dancer, which takes up much of your time, but I will still expect you to learn and improve.”

She turns to him, her eyes wide and blue and bright. “You’ll teach me?” 

He chuckles, grinning. “That is what I just said, Meg.”

She smiles, twining her fingers by her stomach. “I’d love that, Erik.” 

They talked of different things now, of Meg’s childhood - though she promised hers wasn’t much different from the other girl’s - and when she asked of his, he snapped at her. He apologized, then, and she gingerly approached the topic of his compositions, which she saw brought a much livelier side of him that she found rather alluring. 

They’d walked for most of the day, and as day turned to night, before the sun died, she brought them to a stop in a field of sunflowers. She laid the cape out beneath them and gestured for him to sit, and they ate quietly. Meg had finished first, and had began picking flowers, weaving them together in a way Erik had never seen. 

“What do you think?” She asks, lifting the crown and placing it on her head. 

“That’s a rather dirty flower crown for a dancer,” he replies, and she grins, quickly lifting it off her head and placing it on his own.

“Meg Giry, what in -“ but he was cut off by her giggling, and he found himself rather infatuated with her smile.

“A bit dirty for a composer, but I suppose it’s fit for a ghost.”

“Now is it?” He jokes, arching a brow. 

She cocks her head, as if observing him, and he narrows his eyes, watching her features. He suddenly became worried she was planning to remove the mask - no, not again, never again - and as he turns, she lunges forward, grabs his shoulders, and turns him back. 

“Sorry,” she says, flustered. “I just thought you looked rather handsome in a crown of flowers. Perhaps that should be your trademark instead of a mask.” 

“Maybe a mask and flowers,” he says, emphasizing the ‘and’.

Her grin grows wider. “Yes. Yes - I’d rather believe that fits you quite better, actually.” 

As the night grew cold, they stepped off of the cloak and Meg pressed it against her shoulders, savoring it’s warmth. Erik held a hand out for her, which she took, and he helped her behind him, and relished her heat from her arms and her cloak as they rode off. Soon enough, he felt her breathing slow behind him, and her head tilt toward him. He felt the pleasant scratch of the petals against the back of his neck, and a warm, joyful feeling - something he hadn’t felt for a long time - flooded him. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Meg waited outside for Erik, who promised he’d be back quickly, and with more food and supplies. The sky was dark and gray, and Meg prayed that he’d hurry so they could find shelter before the storm. 

She flinched when she heard thunder crack, but after a series of yelling, she realized it was the crack of a bullet. 

“Go!” Erik yelled, and he grabbed Cesar and her hand and fled quickly, bringing them to a halt once he thought they’d escaped. 

“What did you do?” She asked, breathing wildly, and Erik held up a bag of apples, grinning proudly.

“I stole some more apples for us and Cesar!” he exclaimed, grinning.

“Erik!” She chastised, before she heard the gendermerns - or whatever sort of law enforcement there was here - yelling and drawing closer. 

“Bring Cesar and the food back behind the tavern!” He says, handing the food and the saddle ropes to Meg, and then inconspicuously glancing around the corner. 

“Be quiet, Cesar, alright?” She gently spoke to the horse, running her fingers through his mane soothingly. “It will only be a few moments.” 

Thunder rumbles and rain begins to tumble from the sky, soaking them, and Meg tries to calm Cesar, petting him and whispering honeyed words. 

Fingers then wrap around her wrist and pull her against a strong chest, and Meg shivers at the contact. She hears the gendermernes draw closer, and realizes that they are approaching on the side in which Erik’s mask is showing. In a panic, she presses her back against the brick wall, pulling Erik against her, and kisses him deeply. Her hand comes up to cover the porcelain, to hide it from the oncoming men. 

She waits, pulling his lips with hers, silently begging him to catch on. The blonde feels rain coat his lips, and there’s a certain saltiness to his mouth that tastes like wine, and she never wanted to stop. Water drips down their mouths, their chins, their noses, and adds a delicious friction as their faces press against one another. He pulls away for a second, and gazes down at her, mismatched eyes boring deeply into hers, and Meg gasps when he kisses her now. His tongue traces the seam of her lips, and with a breath, her lips open to his. 

She melts into his kiss, falls into him, slowly, slowly, and then all at once. 

He pulls away once the men have passed, and he avoids her eyes as he does so. He gathers Cesar and Meg climbs on behind him, wrapping her arms about his waist. But it was different now. When she touched him, there was a certain charge, like electricity, that seemed to spark in her veins. Now, when she leans against him, the dancer pretends that he is not a stable-boy, not some wealthy suitor, but instead a masked man who wasn’t infatuated with her best friend.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Meg,” he whispers, gently shaking her awake, a hand on her shoulder. 

“No,” she moans, turning away. Her head hurt something horrible, and soreness spread through her entire body. If it were up to her, she never wanted to move again. She felt him press a hand to her forehead, and he exhaled sharply. 

“You’re burning up,” he announced, and her head lolled toward him as an arm slid beneath her knees and shoulders and lifted her carefully. She felt him struggle to mount Cesar, but once on top, he cradled her close to him, holding her tightly with one arm. 

“Hurts,” she says, and he shushes her before Cesar begins to move. She found solace in the crook of his neck, but the constant bouncing of their transport only heightened her level of nausea. She felt delirious, cold and hot. Sweat gathered at her hairline and upper lip, but she shivered and leaned farther into him, and he held her tighter all the same. 

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when they finally came to a stop, but she felt Erik’s hand against her cheek, and then they were climbing off Cesar. She felt him rushing inside, knocking on the door, and then a frantic yelp. 

“Meg?” A girl’s voice cries out, and at this, the blonde’s eyelids flicker open. 

“Christine?” She slurs, the fever having taken her diction. 

“I don’t know why you’re here,” Christine says, almost angrily, and Meg knew it was directed at Erik. “Or how you found me, but hurry quickly inside and set Meg on the couch. I’ll call for a doctor.” 

Meg felt herself being gently placed on the couch, and shivered and moaned. A heavier blanket was placed over her, and she felt a delicate hand, smoother than Erik’s, slide her golden strands away from her forehead. 

“Oh, Meg, what did you do?” Christine whispers to her friend, sitting beside her on the ground. “You weren’t supposed to come after me.” 

Meg couldn’t reply, but was grateful when water was brought to her lips. She heard the front door open once again, and before Meg fell back asleep, the last thing she felt was Erik’s hand against her forehead once more, and a gentle muttering of, “I’m sorry.” 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The next time Meg awoke, it was to mumbling near the door of wherever she was. After a moment, she realized she was on a mattress, and she felt a considerable amount better. There was still pain tucked away behind her eyelids, however.

“I truly didn’t think this would be where you were, Christine,” she hears Erik say. “I simply stopped at the first house I saw.”

“But your goal was to find me,” she says, angrily, and Erik recoils. “That letter was meant for Meg. If you hadn’t dragged her - “

“I’m sorry,” he says, interrupting. “ I’m truly sorry for what’s happened to Meg. But Christine, you can’t just walk away from your career!”

“I will do whatever I please,” she says. “I’ve always dreamed of having a family of my own. Eventually, I would have walked away.” 

A pause, and then, “I only want for you to be happy, Christine.” 

“Can you accept if what makes me happy isn’t being by your side?” She questions gently, and there was no response for a long while, but she heard sniffles and the rustle of clothes. She slowly opened her eyelids, gingerly, painfully, and saw them wrapped in a hug. 

“Thank you, for everything you’ve done for me,” Christine says, and Meg could see that Erik’s face was contorted with grief. She then lay a hand on his face. “You’ve been so kind to me, given me so much. I only ask, now, for one last thing.”

“Anything,” he whispers, and she smiles sadly. 

“Freedom.” A beat, and then, “And I suspect you aren’t alone, anymore.” 

It was quiet again, and Meg wasn’t sure if they had simply stopped talking or if she had fallen asleep again, but she awoke to Erik beside her a while later, stroking her hair. 

“Are we friends?” She asks him, rather suddenly, and the corners of his lips turn up in the corners. 

“I suspect we are,” he replies, and Meg grins back, leaning against his ministrations. His face then hardened, and his mouth pinched together as if he were bothered. 

“What’s wrong?” She asks, gazing at him thoughtfully, and he looks away, his eyes lowered. 

“I’m sorry for leading you into danger,” he says, and Meg shakes her head, albeit weakly. 

“It was both of our decisions. And I think that you and Christine had a valuable conversation,” Meg defends, and he looks away again. As her vision became clearer, she noted how his eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and shadows smudged beneath his eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“A few days,” he replies, and Meg’s eyes widen. 

“Oh,” is all she can say, and he chuckles, before saying that Christine is anxious to see her in good health. 

“Wait,” Meg says, grabbing onto his shirt sleeve. “Will . . . will you hold me?” She questions, and his eyes dart between her and the doorway multiple times before settling back onto her. 

“Alright,” he agrees, and Meg moves to leave him room as he crawls onto the mattress with her, opening his arms. She settles against him, her forehead returning to the crook of his neck, and her hand settling against his chest. Her eyes close and his fingers comb softly through her hair, and this time, she dreamed. 

Later, they would make their way back to the opera house. Madame Giry would scold them both, but would be glad to hear that Christine was alright. Later, he would take her under the opera house, where he would watch her practice, spinning around his lair. His home would become more bright and colorful as Meg brought him gifts, and never would she allow him to skip a meal again. Later, he would take her to the top of the Garnier, overlooking all of Paris at midnight, and would say he loved her. She would smile and kiss him, and he would cry, and they would embrace as close friends and lovers do. Later, much later, Meg would give him a ring, and they would be married. And much later after that, the two would sit side-by-side, in a mansion outside of Paris, watching children and grandchildren play in the gardens. And they would take each other's hands, never to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> (this fic was written for littlelonghairedoutlaw's poto rare pairs contest)
> 
> so this ended up being a lot longer than expected. HOWEVER, Meg Giry is a very special character to me, and i wanted to give her a happy ending :). 
> 
> thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed :).


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